Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “About time someone did,” Heeth agreed. “To think that we languished under the Censorate for four hundred years is appalling, compared to what we can do, now.”

  “I’m wondering if that’s an entirely good thing,” I said, quietly. That drew stares and a few open mouths. “While I’m certainly pleased with how things are going, I cannot help but consider the ramifications of a third Magocracy. Magic is putting people out of work, for instance.”

  “Chandlers and plowmen, perhaps,” Mavone said, shaking his head. “But look how many are employed now in jobs related to magic.”

  “The handful of adepts we employ, and their suppliers, is a drop in the barrel compared to how many peasants are losing their positions in the fields, thanks to the agricultural wands,” Astyral noted. “I’m seeing that in Losara. Thankfully, the barony lost so many people in the invasion that it hasn’t become a pressing issue, yet, but it will,” he predicted.

  “I think the political consequences are likely to be more pressing, before the economic,” I said. “As long as the war continues, we’re a necessary evil, for the aristocracy. When the threat of Korbal and Sheruel is abated, they’ll turn their attention to us. That’s why I’m trying to build Vanador into a strong enough city, and the Magelaw a strong enough land, to resist them, when the time comes.”

  “Not all of us are fortunate to live in the Magelaw,” Astyral pointed out. “I have to contend with my nasty neighbors, most of whom prefer magi stay common shopkeepers, not competing lords. I’m still restoring my lands in Losara, but when they are ready, I’ll be growing more cotton with less cost than my neighbors. That sends prices low. Of course, with transfer wands, I don’t even have to ship them downriver, so I’ll still profit.”

  “Actually, it is your Wizards’ Mercantile that is the real economic threat,” Jannik observed, as he strummed idly on his guitar. “Your plowing and reaping wands threaten the peasantry and enrich the nobility. But the loss of revenue from caravans crossing their lands threatens the nobility. Just how much untaxed grain have you brought into Vanador? Grain merchants have started wars over that sort of thing, you know.”

  “I would say the real threat,” Heeth said, thoughtfully, “is ourselves.”

  Mavone cocked his head, quizzically. “Well, that’s enigmatic. How so?”

  “Right now,” Heeth explained, “the magelords are united against both the threat of Korbal and the threat of regulation from crown. Everyone knows things are good, and that Minalan is ensuring that regulation stays light and enforcement infrequent.

  “But what happens when we all get comfortable with our new-found fortune and status? As much as I respect our barbaric ancestors, the fact is that the Narasi Invasion didn’t succeed because horsemen are better than warmagi, but because the Magocracy was weak from a century of bitter in-fighting between magelords and over-regulation from the Archmagi. Wizards are just as petty and jealous as anyone else; we’re simply better educated.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone turning on Minalan,” Mavone said, thoughtfully.

  “Dunselen did,” I pointed out. “And Isily. The Greenflower Magewar was the first in four hundred years. I cannot imagine that it will be the last. I’m hoping the oath I made you all take will keep things stable, but only if it is enforced. I think Heeth is correct: we have more to fear from each other, should we set aside civility, than we do from the mundane nobility. My power keeps things balanced, but I won’t live forever,” I promised.

  “And my lord collects many enemies,” Jannik pointed out, helpfully. “He even imports new ones from exotic lands when the domestic variety isn’t amusing enough.”

  “Line them up and see how Caswallon the Fox contends with those who eschew the deep wisdom of the Spellmonger!” Caswallon declared. “They will discover what magical fury looks like!”

  “Anyone watching the attack today will know that,” Astyral said, quietly. “Duin’s sack, that was a brutal attack. These orbs are magnificently deadly. We must have slain thousands, between the warmagi and the Sky Riders.”

  “There are thousands more yet to be slain,” Tamonial said, his not-quite-human eyes reflecting the firelight oddly. “Shakathet’s army will cross the river and continue attacking. Despite our efforts, he still has superior numbers. Your new Magocracy will fail, if he succeeds in this war.”

  “My new Magocracy will succeed in repelling him,” I countered. “I have a plan.”

  “Of course you do,” Mavone said, shaking his head and smiling. “A devious, subtle, intricate plan that no one really knows but you.”

  “Would you prefer it if I just improvised?” I asked. “You can’t build sound institutions on improvisation. A plan is necessary. It may be faulty, flawed or flouted, but you must have a plan.”

  “I would not,” Mavone agreed. “One cannot expect to enjoy that kind of luck all the time. And Pentandra did teach you a lot,” he added. I ignored the dig.

  “If your plan was to rebuild the Magocracy, recall that there are many unpleasant associations with that institution, even amongst those of Imperial blood,” Astyral reminded us. “Their institutions were the cause of much trouble, over time.”

  “Yet they persisted,” Heeth pointed out. “For centuries, if you count Farise. At various points in history the Magocracy enjoyed long periods of relative peace and prosperity. While the magewars were horribly violent, the administration was actually fairly sound for most of its history. The rule of wizards was not benign, but it can be argued that was a necessary step for man to evolve to live on Callidore,” he lectured. “Especially once we lost our technologies and industries. When we lost our ability to rule the air,” he said, wistfully. “I think we had no choice, but to rule. Otherwise, knowing magic would be cause to oppress us out of jealousy and spite.”

  “It is strange to hear of such things,” admitted Tamonial, who had stayed mostly quiet and just listened to our conversation. “All of my people do magic, to varying degrees. The arcane forces are part of everyone’s daily existence, so much so that we rarely think of it in such terms. Some of us specialize, becoming spellsingers or enchanters or even study sorcery, but there are no Alka Alon who do not do magic. It is a matter of degree and aptitude,” he reported. “And morality.”

  “What is the difference between songspells and sorcery?” asked Jannik. “I’ve always wondered. I suppose you lot would know the answer to that if anyone would.”

  The Tera Alon warmage considered the question. “Songspells are the outgrowth of a sophisticated understanding of the nature of magic, as expressed through our songs. Sorcery is the manipulation and exploitation of magic through the use of mental and emotional tools. Songspells usually work with the magic of the world. Sorcery ruthlessly exploits it. That is one reason why the Enshadowed are exiled from Alka Alon society. Sorcery is destructive to our way of life, usually.”

  “That’s a subtle distinction,” Heeth observed. “One could say the difference is a matter of moral perspective.”

  “Our magic doesn’t require morals,” Astyral snickered. “Pesky things, sometimes, morals.”

  “I think it does. It was the moral guidance of magic in service of the people that kept the Magocracy from being entirely evil,” Heeth said.

  “But they did not make it entirely good, either,” Mavone pointed out.

  “Though throughout much of its existence it paid mere lip service to the ideal, interpreting it in ways that rationalized excess and poor behavior,” conceded Heeth. “Though there were other schools of thought, the First Magocracy used that as a principle, to keep the colony functioning. By the time of the Second Magocracy, it had become part of the institutions and the culture.”

  “Let it stand as principle for the Third Magocracy as well, then,” I pronounced. “Magelords might rule the Magelaw, but we cannot expect to rule everywhere in the Duchies, again. Let us see how we perform, compared to our mundane neighbors. Let us see if we deserve the realms we have before we seek others through con
quest.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have much of a choice, Minalan,” counselled Astyral, somberly. “When it comes to warfare, the side with the better magi usually win, the Narasi invasion notwithstanding. If our magelands are successful, we invite challenge. And some of us are a little conquest-minded,” he said, purposefully not looking at anyone in particular. “At a certain point, we will have to decide how much power to take, not whether or not we should take power. The incompetence of the aristocracy will demand it. We are educated men, after all,” he said, expansively, before he noted Caswallon. “Mostly,” he added.

  “Our education does not necessarily equate to wisdom,” Mavone said. “Look, I can appreciate the moral underpinnings of our rule, as mushy as they are, but the magi are just as prone to foolish behavior and poor decisions as any man. At most, we are taught to think in a disciplined way, and some of us can apply that discipline to other arenas, like politics or commerce. Even our rajira is secondary, I would say, in the success or failure of our realm. Seek the wisest among us and hope for the best,” he said with a sigh.

  “That seems a rather cavalier attitude about something as important as how the realm is guided and governed,” Heeth pointed out.

  “I’m a practical man,” Mavone shrugged, “not an idealist. I’m disappointed, sometimes. Idealists are disappointed all the time.”

  “Ah! One of the wisest among us!” Jannik agreed. “I cannot tell you how to rule, my arcane lords,” he continued, as his fingers kept strumming. “But I can tell you that the people of the Magelaw are supportive of your efforts. Even when they do not understand them. They are grateful to the magi for protecting them and respectful of your mostly respectable profession. They are terrified that you will lose the war, and they are dedicated to fighting to protect what they have. And they have an odd fascination with Minalan the Spellmonger, who seems to be responsible for it all.”

  “I’m not responsible for it all. The wizards of Vanador are,” I objected.

  “My lord, you are the man they admire, whether you deserve it or not,” Jannik insisted. “But it’s still early in your reign. You could have mobs and riots within the year, if you screw anything up.”

  “Magical mobs and rioters with warwands,” Mavone said, shaking his head. “That will be delightful.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t screw anything up, then,” I agreed.

  “The morrow will show it,” Jannik nodded, and then began strumming with purpose. “I hope you all have heard this before, but if you haven’t, this is The Spellmonger and the Sow. Because keeping the rulers humble is as important as kissing their arses. And just wait to you hear the new verses I added . . .”

  Chapter Thirty

  Count Anvaram

  “From the spring of arrogance only a fool drinks the water.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

  The next morning, my gentlemen and I departed the glade after a leisurely breakfast and an update, mind-to-mind, from Terleman on the war. Then we began to ride south, along the river.

  Eventually, we came to an army.

  Count Anvaram had encamped his Gilmoran gallants on the western slopes of a hillock that led to the castle of Green Hill, overlooking the Wildwater. It was the portion of the hill closest to the river, and it would have been of great strategic purpose, had there been but a ford or a bridge or even a navigable river at that point in the stream. But the great rocks that littered the river kept all but the smallest boats from traveling upstream, and the current was too fierce to allow much passage downstream for anything but logs.

  Anvaram’s host blanketed the grassy sides of the hill. Pavilion after pavilion dotted the grassy meadows, and hundreds of simpler tents sheltered the soldiers and attendants. Banners and flags flew in abundance, and each encampment vied with the others in gaudy displays of heraldry. Military discipline was lax – we did not encounter any pickets or sentries until we were at the very entrance of their camp. Nor did they properly challenge us; instead, they, waved us through as if we were part of their army.

  We were, after all, dressed for war, though not so flamboyantly as the Gilmorans were accustomed. But we came in midmorning, during the general hustle and bustle of an army camp, behind a cart full of vegetables the local peasants were peddling. The tired-looking sentries waved us through as though we were mercenaries.

  We bore little in the way of insignia – when you are coming fresh from a clandestine mission, heraldry is really an afterthought. But even elementary security dictated that sentries screen everyone coming into or out of an encampment. We were not stopped, questioned or searched. We were both pleased and appalled at Anvaram’s incompetence, as we rode through his lines, and I have no doubt comments flew, mind-to-mind. Twenty-five warmagi riding into camp should have sounded some sort of alarm, somewhere.

  Finding Anvaram’s canopy was easy: it was the largest, and it was festooned with his gaudy canine device in absurd abundance. There were portrayals of dogs everywhere, from the peak of his pavilion to the painting on his canopy to every shield in his personal guard. Only when we came to the borders of his personal encampment were we finally stopped. A tired-looking ancient with a spear approached us, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “And what do you fellows need, then?” he asked, the expression under his helmet already irritated.

  “We want to know what’s going on, here,” Mavone explained. “Is there a tournament underway?”

  The ancient looked confused. “No, no, this is the army of Count Anvaram of Nion. You fellows local?”

  “We’re from up north,” Jannik said, letting his Wilderlands brogue get thick for effect. “Saw the banners, wanted to know what was happening. This is an army?” he asked, looking around as if it was in question.

  “Aye, we’re going to war with the Spellmonger,” the ancient said, pronouncing the words with deliberation. “He’s kidnapped some fair lady or something, and His Excellency is making war on him to demand her return.”

  “Ah,” Mavone nodded. “Well, I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”

  The ancient looked confused, then chuckled. “Oh, you cannot? And why would you have anything to say about it?”

  “Because I am the constable of Minalan the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw,” Mavone explained. “As the realm is in a state of emergency, I cannot permit frivolous adventures such as this. This army must withdraw. Please inform your superiors,” he added, calmly.

  “You don’t speak like a Wilderlord,” the ancient challenged. “You sound like a Gilmoran!”

  “That’s where I was raised,” Mavone agreed. “Some of us prefer the rule of Alshar, not Castal, and would rather serve an Alshari count. But I am, indeed, the Constable of the realm. And this is an unlawful proceeding.”

  The ancient looked astonished. “You’re telling me you . . . you work for the Spellmonger?”

  “I do,” Mavone agreed. “As do these gentlemen,” he said, indicating the other warmagi. “All except for him,” he said, pointing to me. “He is the Spellmonger.”

  I nodded and smiled.

  The ancient stared up at us in disbelief. “You’re jesting!” he accused. “The Spellmonger is miles from here! With an army!”

  “I decided to take a ride with my gentlemen,” I said, innocently. “I had no idea that there was an army invading. But Magelord Mavone is correct: we simply can’t permit it, right now.”

  “You . . . can’t permit it?” he asked, clearly having trouble understanding the situation.

  “No, no, I cannot. I have far too many other things going on right now to entertain this foolishness. Why don’t you go fetch Count Anvaram, and I’ll explain it to him in person.” To emphasize my identity, I allowed my Magolith to rise in the air menacingly above my shoulder. Without another word, the ancient turned and went into the canopy.

  “I think he took that rather well,” Astyral said.

  It took a few mome
nts, but soon the flap of the tent whipped open, and Anvaram burst out, followed by several of his knights.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, as he stomped his way to our horses. He stopped abruptly when he recognized me, and then Astyral and Mavone. “You!” he said, his voice both shocked and angry. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m telling you to get out of my country,” I said, without further formality. “I applaud the fact that you actually found it and actually made the journey thus far, but I really cannot entertain some foppish Gilmoran’s overwrought sense of honor, at the moment. This is not a tournament,” I said, sneering at the gaily decorated encampment.

  “No, it is a properly declared and executed war,” Anvaram replied, hands defiantly on his hips as his men filed in behind him. “I don’t know where you got the audacity to ride into my camp without so much as a flag of truce, Spellmonger, but don’t think my honor would be touched by clapping you in irons in an instant, and then razing your lands!”

  “I don’t think you’d find that productive,” Mavone said. “These are the Spellmonger’s personal guard. All seasoned, veteran warmagi. High Magi,” he emphasized. “Any move against the count’s person would be immediately met with the fiercest resistance.”

  “I’m rather hoping they will try,” Astyral said. “It would be fun to watch.”

  “Any who dare lay hand on the Spellmonger shall face the wrath of Caswallon the Fox!” Caswallon declared, bellicosely.

  I held my hand up for them to fall silent. “I’m certain that you feel you have some just cause for bringing all of these fellows all this way, Anvaram, but I’m simply too busy to engage in petty bluster from the likes of you when I have more important things to do. So . . . just leave. Go home to your estates. Perhaps hire a new Master of Horse while you are in Vorone,” I suggested, immediately making the count and his men gasp. It was a well-known scandal that his wife had an affair with either his Master of Horse or a stableboy. And it was well known because I’d paid minstrels all over Gilmora to sing of it. The man had been recently replaced by a crony of Tavard’s, but the insult stung all the same.